Dr. Compagno had said, there seemed no likelihood of that; and afterward it would be too late.
So if Gwen came through, the baby would be born. Was he relieved or sorry? Vernon Demerest wasn't sure.
He remembered something else, though, that Gwen had said. The difference between you and me is that you've had a child... whatever happens there's always someone, somewhere that's you again.
She had been speaking of the child whom he had never known, even by name; the girl child, born in the limbo of the Trans America 3-PPP arrangements, who had disappeared from sight immediately and forever. Tonight, under questioning, he admitted that sometimes he wondered about her. What he had not admitted was that he wondered, and remembered, more often than he cared to.
His unknown daughter was eleven years old; Demerest knew her birthday, though he tried not to remember it, but always did, wishing the same thing each year: that there was something he could do--- even a simple thing like sending a greeting... He supposed it was because he and Sarah had never had a child (though both had wanted children) whose birthday he could share... At other times he asked himself questions to which he knew there could be no answers: Where was his daughter? What was she like? Was she happy? Sometimes he looked at children in the streets; if their ages seemed right, he speculated on whether, by merest chance... then chided himself for foolishness. Occasionally the thought haunted him that his daughter might be ill-treated, or need help which he had no knowledge or means to give... At the instinctive reminder, now, Vernon Demerest's hands tightened on the control yoke.
For the first time he realized: he could never endure the same uncertainty again. His own nature demanded positiveness. He could, and would, have gone through with the abortion because that was final, definite; moreover, nothing Anson Harris had said earlier on that subject had changed his mind. True, he might have doubts, or even sorrow, afterward. But he would know.
The overhead radio speaker cut abruptly through his thoughts. "Trans America Two, this is Cleveland Center. Turn left on heading two zero five. Begin descent, when ready, to six thousand. Advise when leaving ten."
Demerest's hand pulled back all four throttles to begin losing altitude. He reset the flight path indicator and eased into the turn.
"Trans America Two coming on course two zero five," Anson Harris was advising Cleveland. "We are leaving ten thousand now."
The buffeting increased as they descended, but with every minute they were nearer destination and the hope of safety. They were also nearing the air route boundary point where, at any moment, Cleveland would hand them over to Chicago Center. After that, there would be thirty minutes flying before entering the approach control of Lincoln friternational.
Harris said quietly, "Vernon, I guess you know how badly I feel about Gwen." He hesitated. "Whatever's between the two of you is none of my business, but if there's anything I can do as a friend..."
"There's nothing," Demerest said. He had no intention of unburdening himself to Anson Harris, who was a competent pilot, but still, in Demerest's eyes, an old maid.
Demerest regretted now that he had revealed as much as he did a few minutes ago, but emotion got the better of him---something which happened rarely. Now, he let his face resume a scowl, his shield against disclosing personal feelings.
"Passing through eight thousand feet," Anson Harris told air route control.
Demerest continued to hold the aircraft in a steady descent, on course. His eyes swept the flight instruments in consistent sequence.
He remembered something about the child---his child---who had been born eleven years ago. For weeks before the birth, he debated with himself whether he should confess his infidelity to Sarah, with the suggestion that they adopt the baby as their own. In the end, his courage had failed him. He dreaded his wife's shocked reaction; he feared that Sarah would never accept the child, whose presence she would regard as a permanent reproach.
Long after, and too late, he realized he had done Sarali an injustice. True, she would have been shocked and hurt, just as she would be shocked and hurt now, if she learned about Gwen. But afterward, in a short time, Sarah's habit of coping would have taken over. For all Sarah's placidity and what Demerest thought of as her dullness, despite her suburban bourgeois activities---the curling Club and amateur oil painting---his wife had a core of sane solidity. He supposed